


A Little Like Dying

by Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon



Series: A Little, A Lot [1]
Category: The Expanse (TV), The Expanse Series - James S. A. Corey
Genre: Bad Decisions, Bad Sex, Canon Divergence, Detectives, Drinking to Cope, M/M, Millock, Sloppy Drunken Noir, The Expanse, Then better sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-09-30 16:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17227364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon/pseuds/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon
Summary: Miller always thought he was a damn good detective. He comes to find others don't necessarily agree.Or: Miller gets drunk and takes it out on his former partner.





	A Little Like Dying

**Author's Note:**

> I’m baffled there aren’t other Miller/Havelock stories on AO3, so I decided that I needed to right that wrong. I hope you’ll like it!
> 
> Also, this story follows the canon of the first novel... (until it doesn’t!)

Miller's face burns, fueled by alcohol and humiliation, a red hot flame that licks at his ears and sears his eyes. The crush of people around him in the already humid Blue Frog is no joke, either. Their combined bodies radiate enough heat to boil him outside just as anger and shame cook him from within.

A scantily dressed server swings past him, plucking his empty glass and replacing it with a full one. He lifts his new drink high, toasting Hasini wherever he is, and sloshing the contents onto himself. He grunts and sucks spilled alcohol off his arm. 

He’s not yet drunk enough to forget why he came to get drunk in the first place. In fact, the liquor seems to be focusing him, heightening every awful thought.

So. He’s the station joke, huh?

Worse, in retrospect, _he’s_ the joke he’d overheard from time to time—every off-handed comment about some asshole or another phoning it in. Some detective so deep in his cups he couldn’t tell his ass from an airlock. Miller had made the easy assumptions. Chao or Franklin. Maybe even Havelock, though it wouldn’t be a fair assessment. Anyone. Not himself. Not Miller.

And then Muss swept in and didn't even have the courtesy to sneer at him or shovel a grin. Just placidly dropped the bomb and walked away.

 _Ha ha. How funny. How sad. Miller doesn’t realize he’s a wreck. The man honestly still thinks he’s good at his job._ Wasn’t that what she’d said? And the worst part—the fucking worst part—is that he _still_ can’t see himself as this pathetic failure he’s supposed to be.

In his head, he’s still good. No, fuck that. He’s still _great._

But now he can see the pity and disgust in everyone’s eyes.

Did Havelock know? Did fucking _Havelock_ think he was a joke? Havelock, whose life Miller had saved multiple times, pulling the man out of bar fights just in time to keep him from getting himself pummeled into oblivion. Havelock, who Miller shielded from the worst of the station’s animosity. Havelock, who never should have come to Ceres, who didn’t belong. Havelock who is leaving because he will _never_ belong. Good-fucking-riddance.

But was he in on it?

_Goddamn Earther._

Miller slides off the barstool, rage adding a further shade of red to his already darkened face. He shoulders a path through a group of non-residents dancing to Bangra music and ignores their shouted insults. Well, almost ignores. He’s got a few choice gestures for them as he stumbles out the door.

He can’t take on the entire Station. But he can find that bastard Havelock before he leaves for… wherever the fuck he’s transferring to. All Miller can remember is: away. And soon. He’ll find him and then he can make him…

Make him…

“Jesus Christ, Miller,” Havelock says, suddenly standing in the doorway. Who comes to your door in the middle of the night in their boxers? If you’re gonna disturb a man’s sleep, you might as well put on some fucking pants, right?

He gawks for a long minute, taking in Havelock’s dark, sleep-tousled hair, the navy blue boxers, one leg ridden up higher than the other, the undershirt over that squat, hard Earther chest.

“What are you doing here?” Miller finally says, his tone petulant. He’d wanted to confront the man, but not like this. “Come back tomorrow.”

“What am I—? Miller, where do you think you are?”

The question is enough to make him slowly look around and realize he’s standing in front of a long row of holes. The door that’s open between them isn’t his, it’s Havelock’s. He has woken Havelock. Because…

Because it was important, goddammit.

“You might as well come in,” Havelock says, his dark brows knitting together in concern. He steps back, offering entry.

As Miller’s about to step over the threshold, he remembers exactly _why_ it’s important and he glowers as he shoulder-checks Havelock.

“Fucking hell,” Havelock hisses, knocked back to stumble against the wall. “What is your—?”

“Did you think it was funny?” Miller demands a second after the door to the hole closes behind him. The damn place smells like baking bread. Who could even sleep through the stink of that fucking baking bread?

“You’re wasted, Miller.”

“And you’re an asshole. What I want to know is how much of one. And for how long. I wouldn’t have thought they’d have let you in on the joke, but what do I know? Hell, I didn’t realize there was a damn joke to tell. So, let’s have it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Talking about me, right? The has-been. The loser. The drunk—”

“You might be coming by that last one honestly,” Havelock says.

“I used to be a great cop. That’s what Muss said. I _used to be_ and then I have a couple of setbacks, nothing others haven’t gone through, but now I’m apparently a guy who doesn’t realize he’s all dried up. Like a ghost that missed the moment of his death, I just keep on going like I’m worth a damn. She got stuck with me because she wouldn’t put out. Isn’t that something?”

“You…” Havelock starts to speak, then stops, closing his mouth deliberately. He’s frowning deeply and Miller takes it as a sign of guilt.

Ha! Caught out. Caught-fucking-out, how’s that for detective skills? He half-sneers as he readies his final blow—something clever and cutting about the whole damned rock being glad to see the last of Havelock.

Instead, he grabs the partition that separates Havelock’s living area from his kitchen, steadying himself. He grins harshly, his face splitting wide. “ _To wanya pashang wit mi, ke,_ Havelock _?”_

It's an asshole question asked in an asshole way. _Lang Belta._ The laugh Miller exhales is mirthless and tired. He pulls his hat down over his face.

“You know I don’t speak Belter Creole,” Havelock says slowly, but there’s something...hesitant...in his voice and when Miller looks up from under his hat, he sees that his former partner’s ears have gone pink. Havelock understood what he said. Maybe not all of it, but enough.

“Say no if you mean no. Get your ass over here if you mean yes. But don’t fucking prevaricate,” Miller says.

Havelock lets his head fall back, sighing long and hard. “You sure know how to romance a fella, Joe...”

“Didn’t realize it was romance you wanted. It never has been before.” ‘Before’ being two _very ill-advised_ late-night encounters they’d both agreed to never mention again.

The kissing is sloppy. Hell, every part of it’s a mess, from the way Miller can’t quite get his pants down and Havelock has to rip them off him, to completely missing entry and fucking between Havelock's thighs. He gets there, eventually, in more ways than one, but he leaves Havelock behind in the process.

“That was…” Havelock’s voice is deeply miserable. The wet sounds of his hand stroking his cock seem to fill the room. He comes with a grunt. Misery is replaced by anger. “Thank fuck I'm getting off this rock.”

Miller lays against the edge of the bed, sweat cooling on his skin, staring up at the ceiling.

“Thanks for that by the way.”

“Listen, I know you’re less of a selfish asshole when you’re a little more sober but, for reference, I had better sex when I lost my virginity. I came in ten seconds. In her eye.”

Miller snorts.

“And her mother caught us.”

“I get it. Not my finest work.” Even drunk he knows this is an understatement. “But I was talking about you leaving. Thanks. _For that_. You spitting on the time and effort I put in.”

“Time and effort you… Are you _fucking kidding me?_ I—”

Miller doesn't bother to listen to the rest of the response, sputtered as it is. He breathes. He closes his eyes. He lets unconsciousness take him.

*** 

Miller wakes up to the smell of baking bread.

“What…?” He groans and starts to sit up, only to find an arm plastered across his chest, pinning him in place. Havelock is lying face down next to him. “Fuck.”

Bits and pieces of the night before return to him, none of them particularly good. He scrubs a hand over his face.

“Dimitri…” he mutters and Havelock grumbles incoherently.

Christ. Miller didn’t even fuck the poor guy properly.

The screen on the far wall mimics some Earth skyline, the sun slowly rising over towering buildings, filling the room with light.

 _Didn’t even fuck him properly_ , he thinks again.

Miller knows it’s good Havelock is leaving Ceres soon. The people here aren’t exactly friendly to him. And now Miller can count himself among that unkind horde. But…

The ‘but’ lingers.

“Hey,” Miller tries again to sit up, shifting so he can roll Havelock over. The man flops to his side. His face is sleep-flushed and when he cracks one bleary eye open, his oddly sweet expression makes Miller feel a strange sort of tenderness toward him.

Dangerous feeling, that.

There are a million reasons why caring about Havelock is a bad idea. Throw ’em all in a hat and pick one. There’s the fact that his last serious relationship was with Candice, and that ended in divorce. Or the fact that Miller will be fifty next year, and Havelock’s maybe ( _maybe_ ) pushing forty. Or the vague, amorphous mistrust Miller feels about all Inners, no matter what logic he applies to the issue. Or the fact that Havelock is leaving. Soon.

He should push him far away; all he wants to do is draw the man closer.

“They took Mao away from me,” he says quietly, trusting Havelock to understand. “It was a shit case they never wanted solved in the first place, so they gave it to _me._ But Shadid pulled me off it. I was just starting to make headway and she yanked the rug out from under me. Her and Anderson Dawes.”

He looks a challenge at Havelock. _Piece it together. Make sense of it, where I can’t._

“Shit,” Havelock mutters.

“She wants me to scrub everything I have on the case.”

“But you aren’t going to do it, right?”

“Nah,” he says, and realizes it’s true as the words leave his mouth. “But I don’t think I work for Star Helix anymore. Or I won’t for long.” 

Havelock blinks himself fully awake at that. “They fired you?” 

“Not yet, no. It might be coming, but I'm not going out like that. I think...I’m quitting.”

There’s something about Havelock’s shocked expression that makes Miller want to kiss him, and so he does. This time it’s not sloppy. This time it’s slow and purposeful and Miller can taste Havelock's morning breath and he doesn’t care.

They roll together, tangled up in the sheet, kissing and touching until Havelock breaks for air. “I need to take a piss.”

Actually, Miller does too. Like a racehorse. And by the time Havelock returns, it’s all he can do not to knock him down to get to the bathroom.

Unloading his bladder gives him time to cool his head.

Does he really want to do this again?

He’s damn sure to do it better this time. To make it last. To make it good. And it might be nice for his ego to prove to Havelock that he _can_ be a generous lover—or at least a skilled one. But Miller’s already fucked everything up, and he doesn’t want to make it worse. And then he sees Dimitri leaning against the pillows, lazily stroking himself with one large hand.

Miller’s dick leads the charge.

He takes his time with Havelock’s body, drives him to the edge with his hands and his mouth and then pulls back until Havelock begs him for it. Only when the edge in the man’s voice has grown razor sharp and fragile does Miller _finally_ push into him. He tries to take his time, but Havelock’s fingers dig violently into his shoulders and Miller’s plans to prolong the encounter are summarily spaced.

He strokes Havelock in time with his thrusts and the noises Havelock makes—noises he never heard from the man during their past ill-fated encounters—send him right over the edge. Whether from the splash of cum painting him inside or the way Miller’s hand tightens on his dick, Havelock follows. Screaming.

Miller manages to refrain from congratulating himself on dragging those ragged breaths from his former partner, but he does allow a smile as he holds a boneless Havelock close to his chest.

They stay that way for a long time and it's...nice.

“Hey Joe…” Havelock's voice is drowsy.

“Yeah?”

“You're a good detective.”

God. 

It almost helps. 

“They gave you Mao because they thought you’d just phone it in. But...you’re getting close. Close enough to scare them. A shitty detective couldn't spook ’em like that.”

Christ.

“Don't leave.” The words come raw, hopeful, out of Miller's throat. “Don't…”

Havelock doesn't say anything for long moments, just hugs Miller tightly. Then, “You know I can’t stay here.” 

Miller knows. Even in 0.3 g, Havelock seems to stoop under the gravity of Ceres’ disdain.

“But...you could always come with me. After you find Julie, I mean,” he says. “After you know she’s safe.”

Leave the thrumming rock? Abandon the hole he’s called home for years? 

“Think there’s someplace out there for the both of us?”

“Sure,” Havelock says, neither hopeful nor dismissive. It’s a solid _maybe_. “Once I get settled into my new job. Who knows where they’ll send me. There’s a whole galaxy out there.”

“Yeah,” Miller replies.

Why the fuck not?

He imagines Julie Mao standing in the corner, a crooked, knowing smile on her pretty face. She nods. _Come find me_ , her smile seems to say, _and then afterward, see what kind of life you can make with him_.

“Want to burn through my week’s water rations together?” Havelock asks. “An hour-long hot shower?”

“Christ. Fuck.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes.”

 

~ Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> The great experiment when writing a rare pair: will anyone read it? 
> 
> (Feedback makes the author blush and swoon! Please consider telling me what you think.)
> 
> Ps. You can (still) find me on [Tumblr!](http://cosmo-is-beink-melon.tumblr.com)


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